Women Who Do Every Damn Thing
10 February, 2010

In the last couple of weeks, a prevailing theme has emerged from my interactions with other women… we’re all exhausted. Drained. Tired all the time. Rooted – and not in a good, covered in chocolate sauce and licked clean by Jason Statham way, either.

It doesn’t take rocket surgery or elaborate time and motion studies to work out why. We’re all scheduled within an inch of our lives, straining to meet unrealistic expectations.  And I’d love to insert the phrase “society is to blame”  here somewhere, but you know what? Ladies, I’m inclined to think WE’RE the ones to blame.

Look at men, bless them. For the purposes of this illustration, make him a fairly able-bodied and at least partially employed bloke. Having put in a day’s or week’s work, what does he do? Either he spends his leisure time amusing himself –  salsa dancing, mountain biking, re-imagining Aztec tapas in his gourmet kitchen, fishing – or he just plonks himself down in a recliner to watch his huge plasma screen until next called to gainful employment. He doesn’t agonise about whether little Johnnie needs a NINTH extra-curricular activity to round out his holistic development (note: Little Johnnie just started prep THIS YEAR). He doesn’t try to amend injustice, from tuckshop overpricing to the suffering wrought by the Haitian earthquake (unless he works for Red Cross, in which case he will address these issues… in office hours). He doesn’t keep in touch with 42 close friends and family members, and take it upon himself to make THEIR lives hassle-free and beautiful.

Nah, our bloke relaxes. Amped as a cattle dog or leisurely as a stoned koala, he knows the value of “me” time and the joy of unstructure.

Women can’t have it all, can’t do it all, can’t BE it all. And I don’t even care anymore. This is what I’m going to do about it… get more sleep. Eight hours a day, thanks, more if I can swing it. So don’t call me after 9 p.m unless you ‘ve  got a crush on  my answering machine robot and, unless either of my children is acutely unwell with more than just a sniffle or a graze – DON”T WAKE ME UP!

Champagne Slurpies
11 December, 2009

Come in, make yourself comfy. Kick off your shoes and let you hair down – or put it up if you prefer. There’s a refreshing seabreeze rustling the teatrees outside. I’ll just put Ry Cooder’s ‘Mambo Sinuendo’ on the CD, unless Quokka wants to loan me Hildy.

Faff all you like – I’ll just duck into the kitchen and mix up the champagne slurpies. Anyone for tapas?